


The Cosmonaut

by WelcomeTheLight



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Russia, Sad with a Happy Ending, Soviet Union, This work is my literal MAGNUM OPUS, enjoy, space references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28142457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelcomeTheLight/pseuds/WelcomeTheLight
Summary: The first handful of hair fell lifelessly into the sink, like trails of fallen stars.Victor’s life has never been easy. When memories of traumatic experiences from his childhood threaten to start taking a toll on his career, Yakov and Lilia decide to reach out with help to their star pupil. However, convincing him to talk to them turns out to be much harder than it seems.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Lilia Baranovskaya & Victor Nikiforov, Yakov Feltsman & Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	The Cosmonaut

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I wrote a fic in years and I’m proud I did. A while ago, my life collapsed after a fight with a dear friend. I truly hit rock bottom. But instead of staying depressed, I tried to use my sadness to write this one shot. 
> 
> I traveled to Saint-Petersburg a year ago. It was an amazing experience. It’s one of the most beautiful cities I have ever visited and I can encourage everyone to go there at least once in their life (Victor’s ‘Come visit Hasetsu at least once!’ quote reference not intended, haha). I’ve been thrilled to write a YOI fic ever since and now I finally did!

_ July 1996, Saint-Petersburg, Kupchino _

  
  


_ “Russian Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin became the first person in space on April 12, 1961. His flight lasted just under two hours. During this flight, he orbited the earth once on the Vostok 1 spacecraft.”  _ Victor’s tiny hands gingerly pressed down onto the pages of his new book, inspecting the detailed watercolor illustrations next to the text. Socialist realism, a colorful picture of the Vostok 1 capsule in front of the moon. He smiled brightly, from ear to ear, his large eyes full of wonder. 

_ “This spacecraft had manual controls but for the mission it was flown in automatic mode. After his return to earth, Gagarin spent a lot of time travelling the world to promote the Soviet Union’s achievement. Gagarin was born on March 9th 1934 near Gzhatsk.” _

Oh, how amazing that must be! Out in space! Stars all around him! No more boring ballet classes, no more mrs. Petrova scolding him for being bad at stretching or eating right before class. 

One day, he would fly through the sky too, like a real cosmonaut! And he would look down at the earth and wave to Mrs. Elena on her balcony! And she would wave back and bake cookies for him to eat when he was back home! 

Maybe, if he was so far away in space, mama would miss him. Maybe, she would try and get up from the couch to ask mrs. Elena to ask him to come back home. Then, they would go to the park! And they would feed the ducklings like they used to do when he was little! Victor loved the ducklings. 

“Mrs. Elena?” Victor looked away from his space book. He hopped off the high stool onto the pale tiles on the floor, carefully, so the neighbors downstairs wouldn’t be bothered. On the opposite side of the compact room, the old lady looked up from her newspaper, pushing up her small glasses with one finger. 

“Yes, Vitya?”

There were still crumbs of Victor’s birthday cake on her face. Leningrad cake. Not Victor’s favorite, but he had been grateful regardless. 

“Would I make a good cosmonaut? And are there ducklings in space?”

Such a sweetheart. He pulled her heartstrings. Mrs. Elena giggled loudly, her light brown eyes sparkling as she did. A magical smile, it was. For a few seconds, she appeared to be a young woman again. The innocence of a child, no matter how broken inside, was something sacred to a wise lady like her. 

“Of course you would make a great cosmonaut. A terrific one. The others on your mission would envy you, for you have hair like starlight.” She said, crossing her skinny, shaky legs. Victor chuckled, pulling his shoulder length braid over his shoulder. He did have hair like starlight. He had braided it himself this morning, now mama refused to help him with it any longer. Now mama refused to do anything at all. 

“But for now, I would focus on ballet and ice skating instead. Everyone knows, Vitya. How much of a talented child you are. And no, there are no ducklings in space. But there were dogs in space before. Did you ever hear about the story of Laika?”

Victor shook his head. He dropped onto the floor and sat down on the coffee-stained rug in the middle of his neighbor’s living room. Sepia colored pictures of unknown faces stared at him from behind the frames that trapped them. They lined the wall like prison cells. There were dark stains on the floral patterned wallpaper, perhaps mold from the leakage upstairs, cracks in the ceiling and holes in the doors. Long forgotten memories. But none of this scared Victor. Though it looked unkept, dated and dirty, Mrs. Elena’s tiny apartment was the safest place he’d ever known. This was the only place that he had ever considered calling his home. 

He crossed his legs, both arms resting on the rug nonchalantly. Looking up at Mrs. Elena’s newspaper, he squinted and tried to read the small letters on the back. 

_ The 14th of July 1996 _ ,  _ Argumenti i Fakti, The first presidential elections in the history of post-Soviet Russia.  _

Victor had no clue what ‘presidential elections’ were, but mama had taught him to never ask questions about the news. 

_ Mama… _

Victor lowered his head, biting on the inside of his cheek. His curiosity about Laika vanished into thin air. 

“Mrs. Elena…” There was sadness in Victor’s voice and tears in his eyes. He did not try to hide it, nor suppress it. “Do you think mama would miss me if I was in space?”

Silence. 

Mrs. Elena kept quiet. Victor couldn’t properly read her expression now half her face was hidden behind her large newspaper. She did it on purpose. He was certain. He waited, patiently, but in anticipation. 

Her lips moved. 

“Of course she would, Vitya. We would all miss you.”

“But then why doesn’t she miss me now?”

Another moment of silence. 

“Your mother is ill.”

Nonsense! Victor shook his head violently, the tears now threatening to fall from his eyes. That wasn’t true!

“She isn’t sick! Mama never cries or pukes! Mama is always watching the TV! She screams at me when I ask her something! She forgot my birthday!”

“She’s… Your mother is…” Mrs. Elena tried. She had trouble finding the right words. How does one explain a situation as complicated as her neighbor’s to a young child?  _ Her  _ young child?

“She’s like a cosmonaut, Vitya.” Mrs. Elena’s voice was soft. Even softer than it usually was. “Her love is always with you, no matter how far away from you, but her mind is not. It’s distanced from the world around her.” 

Victor stared at her, his innocent face tilted to the right. He started crying. He didn’t understand what she meant. Mama wasn’t a cosmonaut! Mama didn’t have a job but spent all day sleeping in, watching sports and the news on their TV, not saying anything. At night, she started talking strangely. 

The old lady tapped on the thick blanket that covered her lap, inviting Victor to climb up her chair and hug her close. He got the sign and got up from the floor. He didn’t waste a second. 

Mrs. Elena’s cold, wrinkly fingers wiped Victor’s tears off his cheeks, her weak left arm wrapped around the young boy’s body. She tried to comfort him to the best of her ability, but was well aware there were invisible scars that would never be healed by anything or anyone.

“When you get older, you will understand.”

Victor sobbed. “I want to understand right now.”

Mrs. Elena shook her head. 

“That takes time, Vitya…” She stroked his silver hair. “Lots of time.”

  
  
  
  


_ January 2007, Saint Petersburg, Central city _

  
  


“Wrong, Vitya. Wrong! You ended that jump terribly again! If you go on like this you’ll break both of your legs and no one will bring home a medal this season! Do it again, and land it properly this time.” 

Victor let out a soft sigh, his shoulders scrunched up. This was pointless. He was disappointing Yakov, after all he’d done for him. He was a disgrace to his coach, a disgrace to figure skating and the sports world. His slim fingers, hovering only inches above the ice, cramped together. There was a knot in his stomach, a lump in his throat. No matter how beautiful the notes sounded, this piece wasn’t written for him. The tempo was hard to follow, the chord progressions unexpected. 

But wasn’t blaming this all on the music a way to cover up the truth?

The Golden Boy of Russia, he was called by many. The rumors about the gifted boy from Saint-Petersburg were no longer limited to his old neighborhood. Thousands of people had faith in him. People from all over the globe respected his talent and praised his passion, his ability to perform to perfection. It used to fuel his soul and help awaken his desire to improve, driven by his power of bringing happiness to the audience and fans. They loved him. But overtime, despite the countless compliments, cheers and waves of applause echoing through crowded skating rinks, it appeared as if Victor had fallen out of love with his profession himself. Of course, there would always be a burning passion inside his heart, a will to entertain his fans. Yes, he would entertain. But he would never understand.

Getting up from the floor carefully, Victor took a deep breath and braced himself. Both his knees and arms were aching from falling, his elbows visibly bruised. Yakov cared about him, Victor was well aware. His coach was strict and tough, sometimes merciless, but had no bad intentions. Compared to what Victor had been forced to call his ‘home’ for the majority of his life, living with Yakov and Lilia had been paradise. 

Winning competitions was his way to thank them, his way of showing his gratitude for the people that had put their everything on the line to save him and lead him to success. 

Through the small windows in each corner of the rink, Victor could see snowflakes falling from the sky. It was a cold winter, even for Russian standards. Over the past few weeks, the snowfall had caused quite some trouble in Saint-Petersburg. Car accidents, traffic jams, and most importantly, sadness. 

Victor missed the warmth of the summer, the sunlight peeking through the clouds, being able to go wherever he pleased without being pained by the Siberian wind. Despite of the beauty of the city, every year, the grey winter skies seemed to turn The Venice of the North into an endless cemetry, with streets of mist and golden buildings like the gravestones of angels. 

Victor placed his right foot forward, gracefully reaching towards the chairs on the stands in front of him.  _ He _ was an angel, an angel from a mysterical world trying to find his way through the dark of the night. The fairytale had been written in Romantic Times. He had to try and feel it. Become one with the sounds, the aesthetics and the message. 

Victor closed his eyes and tried to focus, focus on the themes of nature and escapism, focus on his body, his heart and the soft melody of the song that had begun to play in the distance. It had grown into his sworn enemy, but he knew that no obstacle was ever too hard to face. 

The tones now started to become louder and Victor moved his hands down, pushing his body forward. Graciously gliding over the ice, he spread both arms out wide and started his step-overs. His tight ponytail had begun to loosen and stray strands of silver obscured his vision as he skated, tickling his nose every time he turned, the cold wind blowing against his bare skin. It stung, but did not distract. 

“Don’t lose focus, Vitya! Focus on the music!”

The music… The notes were too fast for his feet to follow, too harsh to his ears to feel them in his soul. 

No. He shouldn’t make up excuses. It wasn’t the music. _ It was him.  _

“Are you even listening to me?”

No, he wasn’t listening. He was dispirited, dissociated. The chords were building up to the climax of the composition, nearing little by little as the large clock in the back of the rink ticked. But there was no symphony inside Victor’s mind. There was chaos. There was no time left to prepare for the jump, to find the inner peace and focus he was looking for so desperately. 

Frustrated with himself, he recklessly threw himself into the air, his left foot in the wrong position. He lost balance and felt panic rise inside his chest. 

Unable to land the jump, Victor fell onto the ice.

The music abruptly stopped and Victor reached out to his ankle, whimpering in pain. 

Fighting the tears that were pricking behind his eyes like there was no tomorrow, Victor cursed at himself. He was a fool, an absolute disappointment to everyone around him. His ankle ached terribly, the rest of his body numbed and motionless. 

Quickly, Yakov made his way towards the edge of the ice, looking at his pupil in terror. He had warned him.

“Are you okay? Do I need to call a medic?”

Blinking away the tears rapidly, Victor shook his head and faked a warm smile, unwilling to let his coach down. He would never. 

He tried to sit up, ignoring the shocks of pain that went through his leg and foot to the best of his ability. He was still able to move his foot, so nothing had been broken. Bruised or sprained at most. He wasn’t made of glass. He had been injured before. There was no point in crying.

“I’m alright!” He yelled cheerfully, though there was a hint of sadness in his voice. He tried to suppress it. “This will heal soon, I am sure. It’s been worse.” 

“Are you really sure? Come here and show me the damage please.”

Victor got up slowly and tried to skate. It hurt, more than he had initially anticipated. He truly was a disaster. 

To prevent his injury from worsening, Victor lifted up his left leg and glided towards the barricades on the side of the rink, balancing on his right leg instead. Victor blew his hair, that now looked like a disheveled mess, out of his face and untied his ponytail. He carefully climbed over the fence, making sure to keep his left foot in the air. Yakov immediately dashed to his side, helping Victor make his way to the nearest bench in a rather clumsy manner, although neither of them seemed to mind now there was no one else around. 

Victor untied the laces of his skate and took it off at a slow pace, mindful not to touch the bruises. He slid off his sock. His ankle was swollen and a large, deep purple bruise was exposed. 

“That’s sprained.” Yakov said. “Don’t touch it. I will get you an ice pack and an elastic bandage, make sure not to move your ankle or it will swell up even more.”

Victor sighed and looked away. As his coach made his way out of the skating hall, a feeling of embarrassment washed over him. Weeks of intense training, weeks of waking up at ridiculous hours in order to make it to the rink in time. All in order not to lose any of the precious time he needed to work out and perfectionate his routine. 

This was terrible, and it was his own fault. He had been reckless. Careless. 

Yakov returned, carrying the ice and bandages with him. He handed them to Victor, aware he was old and experienced enough to take care of his injuries himself by now. 

He was an 18 year old champion, having won every single Rostelecom Cup and gold at the Grand Prix since his senior debut. Victor Nikiforov was a living legend in the making. Such students no longer needed help.

As Victor skillfully applied the ice to his swollen ankle, Yakov kneeled down next to him. Victor closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try and ease his mind. He had been through a lot today, a rant of criticism on his performance might be just enough to push him over the edge.

_ No _ .

He wouldn’t allow himself to. He would stay strong and professional.

He remembered his childhood days, trapped in discomfort and fear. Victor’s heart had never been easy to shatter. Despite of the memories leaving countless scars behind, the shield he had built around it was strong enough to help him survive. 

A smile like armor, protecting even the weakest soldiers in the battle.

Yakov cleared his throat, the sound loudly echoing through the rink.

“Your last performance was far from perfect.” He started. “Certain elements were better than before, I must admit. But I won’t sugar-coat anything just because you happen to be in pain.” His coach looked Victor right into his ocean eyes, sternly, awakening the feelings of guilt he had just managed to suppress once more. “There is no emotion in your movements. This way you won’t impress me or the judges at the Grand Prix.”

Victor swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted an iron-like flavor.

_ No emotions… _

“I’m sorry, Yakov.” He started, embarrassed. Hiding his face behind a curtain of silver hair, he bit his lip. “I think I just don’t have my day. Tomorrow, I promise to do better.”

“Tommorow?” Yakov shook his head violently, his eyebrows scrunched together. “Those with such mentalities do not win competitions! You’re speaking like a quitter, Vitya! I didn’t become your coach to see you quit but to see you prosper.”

“I know...” Victor could feel his heart shatter right at the spot, but did not allow himself to show it. He would never show anyone. He would rather die than disappoint or disencourage. “I know. I’ll… Do better. In fact, I’ll try it one more time! Right now! I’ll-”

Instinctively, Victor got up from the bench, dropping the ice pack on the floor beneath him. He would show Yakov his worth, he’d show him that coaching him was not a mistake, that he was not a waste of time! He would show him how he was able to land quadruple flips with ease! That he could-

Yakov grabbed his arm firmly. 

“Not today! Not now you sprained your ankle. You will make it worse! Are you out of your mind? I can see you need rest now, there are circles underneath your eyes.”

“But I-”

“No discussion! You need rest. But do not disappoint me once you’ve recovered!”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Yakov nodded, his facial expression softening. There it was again, that hidden, pained look on Victor’s face. 

Yakov lowered his head, recalling the countless moments he had seen that expression before. On the exhausted faces of his previous students and former rivals he had faced himself in the 50s and 60s. And yet, despite of being so familiar with it, the pain in Victor’s eyes appeared to be caused by much more than just exhaustion. Victor had been acting off for a few weeks now, and it hurt Yakov to see. 

Having been a professional sportsman himself for many years, Yakov was well aware of how harsh the dark winter months could be on an athlete’s physical and mental state. But something else had changed. Something much more serious. The magical powers that his beloved pupil had once possessed, the ability to enchant everyone around him with a single look, had vanished. The light had disappeared out of Victor’s eyes, as if he was wearing a mask to hide his true self in shame. Yakov inspected his student, the tense shoulders and lowered eyelids. An athletic young man, a life full of potential ahead of him. Only 18 but already old. There was little left of his ever confident persona. 

The painful news from home that had reached him earlier this month had only made matters worse for Victor, Yakov was certain. Though he hadn’t looked necessarily sad when he’d been told what had happened, not even remotely shocked to be frank, Yakov had sensed there were bottled up feelings that Victor had trouble dealing with correctly.

Now even his passion for skating did not appear to be a way for him to express himself and his feelings to the fullest any longer, it was clear to him. 

“Tell me. Is there something you want to talk about?” 

_ Was there? _

Victor stared blankly ahead. He hadn’t even asked himself that question yet. Did he want to talk about anything? So far, he hadn’t been willing to. 

“Does it have anything to do with... With your mother?”

_ No. _

He felt nothing. No sadness, no fear. Victor was grateful for Yakov’s concern but the sensitive subject being brought up so sudden was incredibly confronting, almost startling. This wasn’t a subject that should be discussed in a place he felt comfortable, with people he trusted. A faint feeling of anxiety rushed through Victor’s body. He had to shield them from this, so his mind wouldn’t start associating them with it. 

Victor smiled at Yakov, though he felt no joy. He would not show it bothered him, any of this. He had a heart made of steel.

“I don’t think so. Perhaps unconsciously.” His face was tilted to the right innocently. Victor made sure to maintain his smile. Smile with his eyes. Smile convincingly. “You shouldn’t be worried about me, coach. It was news we’d seen coming for years! It wasn’t that much of a shock. Messing up today was my own fault, I was reckless.” 

“Are you sure? Lilia can talk about it with you.” Yakov said. “She went through something similar when she was your age. I discussed it with her earlier this week. She’s at home right now.”

Victor didn’t quite know what to say. He didn’t want to, he was certain about that. But wouldn’t blatantly expressing that be cruel? Would it scare away the only people that genuinely seemed to care? 

“That is very kind of her. I appreciate the offer!” Victor tried to smile but realized it was a failed attempt. “But I think I rather don’t talk about it.” 

Unsure of what to do with his emotions, Victor reached for his jacket, findling with the sleeves in a desperate attempt to find distraction. “Not yet. But if I ever feel like it, I know who to ask for help.”

“Alright then.” Yakov nodded once more, though he looked far from convinced by Victor’s lies. There was a glimpse of fatherly concern in Yakov’s eyes. Quickly, he blinked and looked away from his pupil. 

“Just make sure to watch the recordings of your choreography at home. Make notes and find out how to improve those jumps, you’ll have plenty of time this week.”

“I will.” 

  
  
  


Victor stared out of the window of Yakov’s car, melancholy in his eyes. Half an hour had passed since he’d made his fatal mistake. His injured ankle rested on top of his right leg, uncomfortably, but not bothersome. There were surprisingly little cars on the road today, Victor noticed. He assumed the people must have been afraid of accidents now the snow on the roads had frozen and turned to ice. Though Yakov was a careful driver, Victor did not feel completely at ease in the small Lada tonight either, but he had faith. 

A faint smile appeared around Victor’s lips. Just imagine, if they would end up in an accident now. “Figure skating champion Victor Nikiforov and his award winning coach passed away last night. Ice on the road.” The irony of the thought was almost entertaining. 

The car was nearing one of the countless bridges of Saint-Petersburg, a simple trait the city was more than proud of. Victor looked down at the frozen canal below him, his face hidden behind his dark blue scarf. People were skating. Not because it was their job, not because the world expected another perfect performance from them, not because they saw it as the only way to prove themselves. But because they loved it.

Children were laughing, chasing each other with ice hockey sticks, slipping and tumbling. Couples skated hand in hand, clumsily, drowning in each other’s eyes. A memory of love that would never be forgotten. 

Victor owned medals, trophies and prize money. He was famous, praised by the media. He was young, an example and a source of inspiration for many, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t love the attention. Yet, those people beneath him owned something that he would never possess, and he envied them for it.

Sometimes, Victor wondered when he’d lost it. That emotion he had been searching for for many years, but still appeared to be hiding from him. He had been little when he’d last felt it. He had never stopped to think about it, to appreciate it for one last time and try to capture the feeling in his heart forever. Because he didn’t know it would be the last time.

_ You never know what you have until it’s gone… Until it slips away from your grasp… _

He shouldn’t complain. 

After all, this was part of growing up, right? Feeling lonely, feeling down? Everyone went through their phase of teenage angst. His heart would heal once he was in his twenties, his loved ones had ensured him.

The car had reached the end of the bridge. The tiny people dancing on ice slowly disappeared until they could not even be spotted from the corner of Victor’s eye any longer. He let out a soft sigh. Sitting back into his seat, he made eye contact with Yakov in the rearview mirror. 

“Does your ankle still hurt?” His coach asked, looking away from the mirror to focus on the road. Victor shook his head, leaning his head against the window. “No, it stopped hurting a while ago. It’s fine as long as I don’t move too much.”

“Hmm…”

The sky was clear. Victor looked at the stars, wondering if he’d be able to spot Sirius and Canopus from here. Should he talk to Lilia like Yakov had advised him to? 

_ Why would you allow those terrible thoughts back into your mind? _

_ Because then I’d be able to move on, of course! The words would be out in the open, no longer trapped inside your own heart.  _

_ But would you truly want your two worlds to collide?  _

_ Like Andromeda and the Milky Way… Billions of years left, but their fate is inevitable. _

Papa used to hit mama. He kicked her, punched her, smacked her face against the wall until the wallpaper was painted red with blood. That little Vitya had been right there next to them did not matter.  _ He was too young to ever remember _ . 

But he remembered everything. From mama’s screams to her wounds to her tears. 

Mama had never gone to the police, they wouldn’t take her seriously. She had decided to search for a way out herself, just like Victor had. But in comparison to her son, who had found a true passion, she eventually found herself addicted to alcohol instead.

Victor shuddered. Overall, he was a mentally stable person, forgiving, relaxed, hard to piss off. Victor trusted himself more than anyone he had ever met. But something inside of him had always been terrified of the future. Would there ever be a trigger that would turn him just as aggressive as his father? Was he a hypocrite for drinking beer sometimes? Would he end up just like mama, a slave to the alcohol? He had inherited her beauty, her blue eyes, her pointy nose, her delicate frame. But did he have her weaknesses as well?

He had hair like starlight. He had broken more records than the creators of Sputnik and Salyut 1 could ever dream of. 

But he had been cursed with a fate like Luna-15’s. 

A promised victor who would eventually fall.

  
  
  
  


Victor played with his food. 

Yes, he had been starving all day, living off the energy of a breakfast and a few energy bars for hours, but the hunger and the distress combined had put an end to his appetite. 

There was a knot in his stomach. Lilia had cooked one of his favorite meals tonight, a hearty stew with bread and potatoes on the side. Though he had been enthusiastic to taste it when he got home, he couldn’t get himself to swallow it now. The thought of it only was enough to make him nauseous. 

Victor noticed both Yakov and Lilia were eyeing him every once in a while, sharing the same concerned look. Victor refusing to eat was unusual.

_ What are they thinking right now? Are they going to bring it up again?  _

“Don’t you like the food, Vitya?” 

There was an ever-stern look on Lilia’s face, the look you would expect from a proud and successful woman like her. Despite of her strong efforts to hide it, Victor could sense her concern.

“It’s very tasty!l Victor replied. He lowered his eyelids and let out a soft sigh. He had to make up an excuse. 

“I’m just not very hungry tonight. Perhaps because of the injury… I’m worried about the impact this will have on my results at the Grand Prix.” 

Lilia’s eyebrow twitched. She saw right through his sweet smile and did not buy his lies. Victor, worried about his results? Impossible, winning medals had never been a priority to him before. 

Victor swallowed hard.

“We can discuss that tomorrow, your whole routine.” Lilia started. “However, I feel that there is something that we need to talk about, whether you like it or not. And I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

_ I do know. And I would prefer not to talk about it. Haven’t I made that clear?  _

Refusing to comment on Lilia’s assumptions, Victor remained silent. Nonchalantly, he continued to move his food around on his plate, letting his hair fall into his face so he wouldn’t have to look either one of his coaches into their eyes. He wouldn’t talk to them. He wouldn’t talk to anyone. 

“Victor Nikiforov!” Yakov yelled out. His clenched fist hit the table with force, the vein on his forehead throbbing. The cutlery clattered and Victor’s empty glass fell on the floor, shattering to pieces. 

Victor’s eyes widened. 

Yakov’s face was turning redder with the second. “Look at Lilia when she’s talking to you!”

“Tishe, Yakov!” Lilia hissed at her husband. She was frustrated. “Let the boy think! This is a complicated situation for all of us, so we should stay respectful to one another.” 

Yakov shook his head and hit the table once more.This time Victor didn’t flinch. He tried to dissociate, escape from this situation, escape to another world. Space. 

“He’s being disrespectful to you right now!” Yakov yelled. “He never listens! He always changes his plans! Like he doesn’t care! Like he doesn’t even need a coach!”

Lilia tried to remain calm and collected, nose up, shoulders straight. Only the twitching of the corner of her mouth gave away how she truly felt. 

“That has nothing to do with this! We’re talking about his feelings now, about what happened last month! How dare you bring up such nonsense about what’s happening at the rink!” 

“Well, he’s behaving just as cocky and stubborn as home as he does at the rink!” Yakov turned away from his wife to face Victor instead. “We are trying to help you! Don’t you understand that?” 

Victor didn’t hear him. The words were sinking in slowly, vaguely echoing in his head. He wanted to get up and run away without saying a word, but was aware his injured ankle would make it hard for him to walk. 

Desperate and on the verge of tears, Victor decided to break his silence, his hands shaking violently.

“Of course I understand, Yakov.” He spoke. There was sadness in his voice. “But I don’t want to talk. May I be dismissed? I want to watch the recordings of my jumps.”

“No you-“ His coach started, but Lilia quickly cut him off. 

“Of course, Vitya. Go to your room and have some well deserved rest while Yakov and I have a little chat.” 

  
  
  
  


Locked inside his room, Victor tried to come to his own senses again, although it was hard. Laying in bed, Victor could hear Lilia and Yakov fighting downstairs. It was terrible to hear. His injured foot was resting on a high tower of pillows. 

A mix of screams and unattractive words echoed through the hallways of the large house, adding up to the feeling of unease that had tormented Victor all day long. They fought more often, almost every day, but never before had an argument resulted in Lilia crying. 

And that was his fault. 

He had been the cause of all this. His reckless, stubborn behavior at the rink that drove Yakov nuts. His inability to focus or concentrate, his inability to talk about his feelings and his past. His ingratitude. 

The people he loved were suffering, he was suffering. And now, even his career was. The sprained ankle would heal sooner or later, but losing time to practice for the upcoming competition would leave scars on his routine. He didn’t mind losing. After all, to him, silver and bronze were equally beautiful to gold. But disappointing his fans… No, he couldn’t do that to them. 

He had to entertain them. Surprise them. Fight for them.

But did he still have the strength for that? 

Slowly, Victor rolled onto his other side, burying his face into his duvet. His eyes stung. He wanted to cry, but somehow he couldn’t, as if his body and mind no longer corresponded with each other. 

He hadn’t brushed his teeth and combed his hair yet. He would wake up feeling like a wreck in the morning, but he didn’t mind. Nothing mattered anymore.

_ What is wrong with me?  _

The feeling of numbness he felt inside confused Victor. He couldn’t sleep like this. His thoughts were racing. 

He had to calm down. 

Victor threw his blankets off of him, his old Cheburashka plush toy falling off the side of the bed. He didn’t bother to pick it up. His childhood had bever been something he cherished after all.

He turned on the lights and made his way to the bathroom. 

Victor looked his reflection into the eyes. It had taken him 14 years, but he had finally fallen. He had reached rock bottom, it was clear to see. 

He was an adult now, an 18 year old man, but all he saw in the mirror was an anxious child. A homesick child.

Where was his home? Was it here, with Yakov, in the lavish neighborhood near Nevsky Prospekt? Was it on the other side of the city, in the cold apartment complex where he was born and raised? Was it with mrs. Elena, the lady who had died when he was 9?

Or did he not have a home at all? 

Victor confused himself. He did not understand himself at all. He didn’t know who to be, what to feel, or how to feel at all. The dark circles underneath his eyes and the paleness of his skin made him look unhealthy, as if he had been ill for weeks instead of recovering from a simple injury in comfort. The rage and sadness in his eyes made him look dangerous. 

Where did he belong? 

Dad had left long ago. Mom had died physically recently, but had been dead for years inside his mind. A shadow figure whose face he could no longer recall. Then why did it hurt him so terribly, if he had been granted answers and closure years ago? 

Victor rested on both his arms, hovering above the sink, breathing heavily.

He had never said goodbye to his mother. Not properly. He had always kept hoping she would return to him one day, apologize for everything and hold him in her arms like she would do when he was little. The warm hug after his hair had been brushed in the morning. The long, silver hair she loved so much. 

He wanted to be her little boy again, re-live the sparse amount of times that he had felt truly comfortable around her. He had become everything he ever wanted: a hard worker, a star pupil, a winner, a champion.

But he had never been a son.

The bulk of his hair felt heavy against his back, the neatly trimmed ends reaching well below his waist. He loved it, his starlight hair, but it was pushing him down. Holding him back like chains. 

What was he without his hair? Was it all he was? There was no magazine that wrote a piece about him without mentioning it at least twice. People adored its length and unique color. Victor could not recall the last time his hair had been short. It had become a part of him.

It had been who he was for his entire life. 

Impulsively, Victor brought a shaking hand up to his hair, grabbing a large section near his left ear. He had to be freed from the past. Freed from mama, freed from the sweet memories that covered up the hatred that he felt inside his heart. The hatred that could help him move on, live his own life, be reborn. He had to. 

He opened the drawer and pulled out the large pair of scissors they all used to cut off pieces of bandage. 

_ What are you doing? Are you really going to do this, knowing you’ll regret it?  _

_ Yes, I am. _

He was Victor Nikiforov, an 18 year old man. An adult. He didn’t want to be a caricature of himself any longer, a little boy that was controlled by everything and everyone around him. By his feelings, his past, his traumas. 

He was free.

Trembling from head to toe, Victor slid the scissors into his treasured tresses, still too afraid to close them. He looked himself in the eyes. The desperate eyes of a neglected child. They were brimming with unshed tears. 

All that kept him going in life were the cheers of his fans, the unconditional love and support he received from all around the globe. Would they no longer be there for him if he decided to part with who he was in their eyes? If he would ruin his ‘perfect’ appearance? 

_ It doesn’t matter what they think. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. You do this for yourself. _

Victor shut his eyes and cut. 

He attacked his hair almost aggressively, unable to see what he was doing. He gave a grimace of pain. His heart was shattering. 

He couldn’t hold back his tears any longer. Victor started sobbing. Sobbing like he never had before. 

The first handful of lifeless hair fell into the sink, like trails of fallen stars.

Victor’s fingers dug into his scalp, grabbing a new section of silver in his nape. His sobs were slowly becoming uncontrollable, hysterical. He was choking on them. 

No more memories of mama. No more compliments from Lilia before tournaments. He didn’t deserve them. It was his skating that mattered, his performance. Not him, not his appearance. He was far from perfect. 

_ Mama.  _

Victor could see her in his mind, illuminated by the light of the sun that fell through the ever stained windows of their small apartment. Her reflection in the mirror. She was standing behind him, sometime back in 1997, lovingly kissing the top of his head. He hadn’t squirmed once while his hair was being brushed. A big boy, he was. Vitya had done well. 

Three years later. The year 2000. He was hungry and tired, lonely and cold. Mama no longer felt like his mother to him, she had turned into a distant figure, an extra in his life. He no longer was a child, an obedient doll without opinions or passions of his own. Mama had fallen out of love with him. She ignored him constantly. All that mattered to mama was the TV and the alcohol. She went out at night and slept with strangers, hoping to make a new baby to replace Victor, with a loyal man that wouldn’t make her life into a hell. But the baby never arrived, the men never stayed, and never did her love for Vitya return. 

Victor’s pale face was covered in red spots from crying, his eyes large and glassy. It hurt, it physically hurt. 

The pile of hair in the sink kept growing. 

He had been discarded by his own mother. Abandoned. After moving in with Yakov as a junior skater, she didn’t try to reach him once. No visit, no call, no letter. Instead, she got arrested. Charged for attempting to abduct a baby boy in the subway. It was ridiculous. 

Victor snipped off the last bits of hair that hung in front of his face, haphazardly. Every single muscle in his body hurt, a feeling of torture he could hardly describe. No training session had made him feel this emotionally and physically drained in his entire life. 

The scissors were dropped on top of the severed hair with a loud clatter. He was afraid to see the damage, but Victor forced himself to open his eyes. He was no coward. He was no longer a child. 

_ Bozhe moi... _

Victor blinked and stared, at a loss for words.

His hair was… Short. Insanely short, uneven and choppy. Victor didn’t recognize himself. He looked atrocious. Broken.

His sobs came to an abrupt end, his tears no longer flowing. Who was this person in the mirror? Was that him? It couldn’t be. 

He wanted to puke, scream, run away. But he was unable to move. 

He ran his hands through his hair until the feeling of the short strands made him feel sick to the stomach. The thick, blunt ends of his new fringe felt rough against his skin, just like the bald spots in his nape. He couldn’t go out looking like this, he didn’t even have a clue how to explain this to Yakov and Lilia in the morning. 

_ “Beauty is the essence of success, Vitya.”  _ Lilia would say. “ _ Don’t you ever forget.” _

All that beauty had been shorn away. 

And no matter how painful it was, he did not yet regret it.

All that was left of his mother was him. His flesh and blood. Her Nikiforova bloodline. 

The pride of the family he had never known. 

On the ice, he would be reborn, like a Phoenix from the ashes. Like stars from a nebula.

  
  


That season, Victor won gold.

  
  
  
  
  


_ June 21 2018, Saint Petersburg, Kristovsky Island _

“Yuuri!” 

Yuuri looks into his eyes and smiles. He moves over to the couch, blushing. Being around Victor, living with him, getting to share the most beautiful memories with him, loving him. Those things would never belong to the ‘normality’ of his life. It would remain a privilege until the day he died, happily, in Victor’s arms. 

Victor gifts Yuuri a charismatic smile, almost smugly. Yuuri is his fiancé. His handsome, talented, loving, adorable, smart fiancé. Victor couldn’t ask for more. He was complete. And he was grateful.

Victor had broken the promise he’d made with Yakov and Lilia, that one night back in 2007, although Victor had long forgotten about the promise already. Ever since he had decided to leave Russia to coach Yuuri, to chase the love of his life, Yakov and Lilia had distanced themselves from him. Their relationship was now exclusively professional. He was no longer Vitya, but Victor Nikiforov. 

It wasn’t that they didn’t care about him anymore, that their love for him had changed into feelings of hatred out of sudden. They had been disappointed, and winning back their trust had never been an easy task. They were disappointed like they had been back then, 10 years ago, when he had refused their help. When he’d lost control and cut off all his hair, disappointing both his coaches and his fans from all over the world. 

Back when he’d almost lost himself.

Victor feels Yuuri’s warm arms around his waist, his off-season-chubby cheeks against his own collarbone. He feels blessed. Blessed that he had managed to find himself back again, built up a new life and find out that happiness did not revolve around fame or recognition. Blessed, that he had never let go.

His darkest fears, his greatest worries; they’d all been proven wrong. Debunked. He had found what he’d been looking for for all those years, the feeling that he lost when he’d been only a little boy. 

His happiness, he’d found it in Yuuri. 

Yuuri’s hands reach out for Victor’s. Victor smiles. Not to cover up a lie, not to force himself to keep on going, but because he wants to. 

They intertwine their fingers, and a feeling of love threatens to overwhelm Victor. His heart starts beating faster and both of his pale cheeks flush red.

_ You fool, you’ve been engaged to this man for 2 years.  _

Yuuri notices and laughs softly. 

“Am I making you blush?” He asks playfully. 

Victor covers his face, trying to hide his flushed cheeks. 

“You might just be.” He laughs. “It’s not my fault you are so handsome, Yuuri!”

It’s his fiancé’s turn to blush now. His beautiful, sweet, caring fiancé, the man he would marry one day. 

Victor tears up. What if he had given up all those years ago? What if he’d let the memories of the hell he had lived during his childhood consume him? He wouldn’t be here right now, with Yuuri and Makkachin in their lovely house. Their home.

“Are you crying?” There is concern in Yuuri’s voice, fear in his eyes, although his cheeks remain pink. Victor doesn’t like to see Yuuri sad. 

“I am, moya lyubov’. Happy tears.” He runs a hand through Yuuri’s hair. He has hair like the midnight sky. 

“Tell me, Yuuri.” Victor says. “Have you ever heard the story of Laika?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
